Hush, Babybird
by CluelessKitten
Summary: The thing is, they don't feel like Jason Todd anymore. On the other hand, Tim Drake thinks he's found a zombie. He's not that far off.
1. Chapter 1

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They open their eyes and all the world is darkness. It surrounds them, crushes them, as they breathe stale air, as they feel out the limits of the enclosure.

The world is small, they think. Too small to even stand in. Except that's wrong because the world is made of concrete and cool metal, of buildings standing so tall they can hardly see the sky. The sky that reached out to the stars, so untouchable when they used to try to catch them from the roof of that hellhole they'd called home.

The world they remember was so big it swallowed them whole.

The enclosure feels too small, their breaths coming in fast and shallow. There's no way out, they're trapped, they're _trapped_ and their knees and hands hit the ceiling but _there's no way out_. They start screaming then. Mostly wordless, mostly desperate. Sometimes, they form a specific sound, one that makes them _long_ and _hurt_ and ask _why_.

The sound is _Bruce_.

 _Bruce_ is danger and the night and caregiver all at once. But _Bruce_ is not here and will not be here – _like last time_ , although they don't know when or how that was – and they won't wait any longer.

Screaming makes their ears ring but they don't stop. The ringing is good, the ringing is stinging pain that tells them they're here. It tells them they're alive. The frantic beat of their chest and the buzz in their ears makes them scrabble at the lid of their cage. They scratch and they tear through fabric and wood until they reach dirt. Their screams grow muffled but they don't stop, even when they can't breathe anymore.

After so long, after thinking they'll die _again_ between the six feet of soil that separates them from life, they break the surface.

They gasp.

The air is sweet. Crickets resound, well out of sight. In the distance, city lights flashed. Blood drips from their hands and waters the earth. And the soil, it whispers back to them, curls around their ears. For a moment, walls close in again, stale air enters their lungs, and the silence of death consumes them.

But they're out.

They're free.

They lean against the gravestone next to them, sink down to the dewy earth and heave air into their chest.

What the fuck are they supposed to do now?

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The city reeks of decay and desperation. It permeates the air, clinging especially thick in the back streets, the alleyways and all the places people have been forgotten.

Hunger claws bony fingers against their rotting insides as they stalk the streets. The other pedestrians avoid them, offer a wide berth as they move. It's pleasant – they dislike the thought of touching anyone; the feeling is likely mutual. They feel it, though, on their backs when the others don't think they can sense it: the eyes of jackals.

They straighten their back, widen the stride. Project power despite their disheveled, filthy state. In this world they've dragged themselves into, the strong will devour the weak without question. Without remorse. Chills brush up and down their spine as they walk without aim, purposeful and yet they have no goal. No safe haven in this steel-and-concrete jungle. But they glare and people flinch, when they growl the vermin scurry away into their hiding spots, beady eyes darting about warily.

They steal clothes. Shoes, when their feet start hurting for real. A jacket here, a shirt there... Finding anything edible is more difficult.

Out of the corner of their eyes, they see another one of the vermin twitching as he lies limp against the wall. His eyes are unfocused and they mumble some sort of nonsense as they approach. (No need to explore the alley; they know it's a dead end.)

For a moment, they consider eating him.

Just a moment.

He would taste good, wouldn't he? Of course, they'd need to drain the blood – contaminated, considering how obviously high he is – gut him, skin him, shave the hair off if necessary…

Too much work.

Oh, but how _good_ he would taste. An entire man: legs, face, tongue and all.

They tilt their head. Somehow, they feel as if that's not how one goes about eating this sort of meal. And either way, it's wrong, isn't it? Eating people, vermin or not, is something they've never considered before now, though they don't have the faintest clue as to _why_. It seems like doing so would solve so many problems.

…Still.

They sigh and make to leave behind the heavily drugged man. Probably all skin and bones, anyway, and riddled with all sorts of diseases to boot.

(They wonder if zombies ever face these sorts of qualms whenever they chase down their meals.)

As they exit the alley, something else catches their attention: a dirty flier for a homeless shelter.

 _Well_.

The thought of going there digs under their skin, writhing like a lone maggot eating into their flesh. They hate it, hate that they have no idea what their next step can be but…

They _are_ homeless. And the night is still young. Maybe there's still some space. They can stay for one night – _one_ – and take the time to figure out. They _need_ that time. And, at the very least, a meal.

They glare at the flier as they carefully read the address.

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(Note to self: Shelter food does not sit well in their stomach.

They retch bitter regrets into the chilly toilet, resolving to take up a more critical eye in their inspections before putting anything in their mouth ever again.

They are hungry.)

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Answers do not come in the homeless shelter. Neither do they miraculously appear in the wanted sections of the newspapers or the careful questions from nosy people about getting social workers. If anything, nagging suspicion rises with the suggestions and implications of the latter, effectively chasing them out of any respectable establishment after only so much time.

The answer instead arrives in the form of a late night out, of shivering against their claimed warm spot by the vents of a building. Specifically, it looks like a large man grabbing the wrist of a scantily clad female.

Reacting is instinct. Their body coils, remembering kicks and punches and _movement_ that sends adrenaline pumping through their blood. The world _shifts_ – or maybe it's them, maybe they're wrong with limbs writhing under their skin and a hole from their stomach to their chest that _craves_ – and they stand in front of the man, their fists swinging at his ugly face.

It feels good. It feels natural.

They smile, careful to hide their face in the darkness. Careful not to really be seen.

 _Leave_ , they say without words, without sound. Because if they're going to do this, then they may as well do this right: make themselves larger than life, a monster in the dark.

A myth.

A nightmare.

A legend.

Grandiose thoughts for a zombie but maybe there are exceptions for the particularly handsome ones.

With a flick of their hand, they shoo the young woman away as they step towards the cursing man again. He spits out blood and meaningless words. Everything bounces off them – tonight, they are on _fire_.

Fighting with the mugger – and if he's something worse, then all the better – is child's play. They sidestep his fists, block, return every favor. It's exhilarating and beautiful and they laugh and laugh and laugh because it's so perfect and _right_.

But the fight drags on and on and they tire.

…Well, that's not really the truth. The truth is that they grow bored. He's hardly worth so much of their time – his words and his movements are repetitive and he's bleeding and angry still, roaring and spitting like an enraged feline.

They snap his wrist. Drag him forward. Open their mouth and swallow him whole.

And the world falls as silent as it ever will in this diseased city. A few streets off, the screech of the sirens pierce the air. They fall still to listen but when the sounds – familiar, makes them clench their jaw – pass by, they relax. Smile.

They are full.

And now they know what they must do.

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They pull the hood securely over their head, draw the cloth up past their nose. It's not the most functional outfit for the job but it can hide them in plain sight. Which, considering they only have one other set of clothes, is vital.

And besides, urban legends start with normal-looking people anyway. Because they don't plan to go gallivanting around with a cape and armor and a hundred different fighting styles hidden in their belt (although that last bit would be nice). They've seen the papers about the Batman and while he's definitely a nightmare and a legend, he's too … public. Too distinguished. And he doesn't kill.

Them? They need money and this is the only way they can get any without stealing from hardworking, legally-paid people. By stealing already stolen funds. It's a bit of a roundabout thing, but they don't think on it too hard.

They won't be a Dark Knight, or a savior. The world isn't kind enough for that sort of thing.

They run their tongue over their teeth, allowing for one second, their form to shift with the world, to flicker into the _more_ that they grew into when they woke up in the box. Appendages slithering about beneath the skin, fingers and limbs just a little too long, a little too pale. They stand tall and cast their long shadow across the alley.

And then, they're just. Just human again. Just another scraggly twig on the streets besieged by misfortune. Just another in this world riddled with holes, crawling with vermin.

They roll their shoulders. Flex their hands.

They debut that night in silence and terror. As they shift the world _just enough_ that the electricity flickers in the building, that chills finger the spines of the scum they eye from the shadows. As they swallow up screams and fight against paper dolls with wild abandon.

Only one gun fires off. Once.

They're rather proud of themselves.

And the cash. Oh, the cash. They count it up, smile wide and stuff as much as they can into their pockets. They're in no rush but they do need to transport all this into a safer area until they can get somewhere to stay. The carpets are soaked with blood after the fight and they make a mental note to learn how to be a bit less messy when it comes to ripping people apart.

But then, that _is_ half the fun.

The next morning, the newspapers are filled with their handiwork. They smile, cut the article and pin it on the wall of their shitty new apartment. Light a cigarette and breathe.

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 _The Ripper_

The public chooses it and that's their entire excuse for ending up with such a shitty alias. But it's really partially their own fault because they hadn't even planned on a name and now they can't even reject the one they've been given. They had wanted to be a shadow, a whisper on the streets, not something tangible. Not something so stupidly named.

At least the no one's posted a picture of them – _yet_.

They growl.

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A woman, middle-aged and beautiful, stands before them with a self-assured smile and a smooth stride. She talks a lot, offers more, and in the end, reaches a slim hand out towards them. Waiting, like she would know their decision, the gleam in her eyes anything but generous.

"Interesting," they rasp because speech is a bothersome thing. "My memories … answers..."

Her smile widens, shows white teeth. "You can have all that and more."

They know a false promise when they hear one. A deal with the devil, a Faustian contract. And she sure as hell looks enough like a succubus.

"But I already have my answer," they continue. "And I have my memories." Broken, fractured, maybe beyond repair but it's true and unquestionably theirs. Which may not become the case if they start letting random women poke around in their head.

The smile disappears. Her eyes harden. "You would be wise to reconsider."

They tilt their head curiously. "Are you going to attack me?" they say, humor lacing the rough.

Her answer is a throwing knife and attack after strategic attack. But she's grown used to fighting only the knowable – maybe that's all she's ever had to fight – and they strike back. They unfurl themselves from bone and marrow, blood and muscle. They strike, flickering between what they are and who they are until the two become one as they draw her blood.

It's almost time, their mouth watering, as they taken in her disheveled brokenness. _Good enough to eat_. And they stretch forward, reaching greedily, ready to devour this presumptuous harpy–

She runs. Almost impossible with the damage to her legs but she does and they can't help but watch.

(Like an injured gazelle.)

Primal fear plays wild in her eyes when she turns away and they breathe in the scent of it and promise themselves her flesh the next time they meet.

(They never see her face again.)

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The first time they meet Batman, they see red.

Their meal whimpers on the ground, legs broken, and they step over it, never taking their eyes off the caped madman. They writhe inside their skin, coiling around fragile bones, ready to burst, to attack…

"So you're the maniac shredding people," Batman says, sounding more affronted than surprised.

They lash out.

Batman reacts. He's good. Very good – fast, agile, strong. He keeps up with them and there's something incredibly reassuring as well as intimidating about the fact.

"You're a thief and a murderer," he says factually, unfazed by their silence. It usually throws people off a bit. But not Batman. Somehow, they're not surprised even if annoyance does surge. "But you only target criminals and abusers."

They can't stop themselves from laughing. The sound is dry, choked – little wonder, considering how little they've spoken since waking up. But it's there, ice crawling underneath their skin and picking apart their spine.

Horrifyingly, salty moisture pricks their eyes.

They want to run away.

Their stomach rebels at the thought of swallowing him up. It's too fast. Unexpected. He's a skilled fighter, an exciting one even if the very sight of him makes them need to shriek as they haven't since they woke up in the box. They hate him, they do, and they don't, and the killing blow never comes. Because they can't.

They just _can't_.

Maybe this is why he won't kill any of his villains, either.

So they throw him into the wall and knock their head into his. Hard enough to incapacitate. Batman slides to the ground.

They feel eyes on their back.

They take a deep breath, shake their head. Eat their meal – they'd lost their playful mood despite the riveting fight – and run. And when they run far enough, they scream and they scream and they scream until their voice bleeds and they choke on the air.

 _Bruce_ , they think in the way one would utter a curse.

 _Bruce_.

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(Sometimes, when they decide they really want to go there, their mind digs up memories of the universe: as it was, as it should have been, how it irrevocably _is_. The same way they simply _are_ now. They remember the nothing that preceded everything and all the things that came before that.

Eternity stretches onward and behind and very few things stay for its entirety.

They are one of those few things – even as they are now, a blip in the cosmos and trapped in something tiny and fragile. They remember regarding the game and the others who have _been_ for as long as they have. They remember human memories from the time when they were 'I' instead of 'we'; 'me' instead of 'us'. It's hazy now, as memories are, flawed and unreliable. But it's all theirs to be kept and treasured.

God help anyone who tries to take any of it away.)

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Batman's a persistent bastard, they'll give him that.

After the first night, it seems the man has resolved to stop them in any way possible. Hunting for possible targets becomes a nightmare in and of itself as they learn to avoid all forms of physical and digital security and turn to the rooftops for their routes.

Sometimes Nightwing comes with him. And the pair, Batman and Nightwing, are almost good enough to keep them from getting away. Almost. And they're thankful for it, for the extra strength and bizarre anatomy that make their getaways possible.

Seeing the two of them, together, does painful things to their still-beating heart. Hearing them talk makes it worse and there are nights when they do no more than turn tail and run the opposite way as soon as they spot either of the vigilantes.

Slowly, they learn how to attack in the day. It's not easy – mosquitoes are always attracted to the dark – but they make it work. They eat and they sleep at odd intervals, more of catnaps than anything else.

Tonight, they can feel eyes prickling the back of their neck. Watchful. It's a feeling they've come to associate with the Batman although it isn't a constant.

Immediately, their eyes dart around the area, trying to decipher where a mad Bat might try to jump out of the shadows or blind spot.

Nothing comes.

The watchfulness does not go away and they do not leave. This is a mystery they don't appreciate, unlike their lost – broken, _unwanted_ – memories.

They draw themselves up tall and regal and for the first time, they allow all of their appendages to escape the confines of skin. They uncoil and taste the air, grasp the light, smell the dark and _fear_ –

It's hides on a rooftop.

They scale the nearby building. It's an old structure that might have been something actually respectable fifty years ago. Today, however, neglect has seen its fall into disrepair. They feel the brick under their hands and tentacles as they glide upwards in one fluid motion. They follow the smell of human and anxiety and fear, so much fear…

They feel it before they see it. Completely by accident, because touch is a strange thing that lights all of the affected nerve endings and they'd rather not waste so much sensation on another person. It's uncomfortable.

A small cry escapes a tiny nook they'd overlooked completely on the way up.

They stop.

Blink.

And then more feelers reach for the origin of the sound and make contact with cloth and skin and hair. They wrap the appendages around the small creature and drag it out into the moonlight.

They blink again.

Because what they have in front of them, struggling and whimpering against their limbs is a small human. A tiny human.

A professional camera hangs from its – his, they remind themselves – neck.

They jolt, snatching the device before they really know what they're doing. The child cries out but can't break free from their grip.

"Please," he begs, arms and legs entwined in their appendages. "Please, I – I didn't take – I didn't take any of you. I didn't mean to – I'll leave. I won't tell anyone. I swear, please, just _please_ –"

They tune him out, too busy with their eyes, at looking, at _seeing_. The boy – because that's what he is – is small, frail, young. They don't eat those. And more than that … odd specialties, a special kind of spark, black hair, Caucasian skin, wide blue eyes…

This wisp will grow into a Robin.

They tense, tighten their grip, and the boy babbles more quickly. Tears leak out of his eyes and his voice shakes, he's so _young_. So, _so_ young.

 _Bruce_ will take him and the Bat will mold him into an offering fit for the earth. Take him, mold him, bleed him, break him.

They drag the boy closer, unaffected by his pleas and struggling. He's weak and ready to cry but they don't stop until they hold him up only a few inches away from themselves.

"You take pictures of Batman," they say aloud even though shaping the words is a hassle. The child doesn't deserve to be terrified. Intimidated, yes, scared, yes, because this is dangerous and not a hobby for the innocent but they will not have him frightened for his life.

They wonder if he's ever been scared like that before. Their own childhood had been very … exposed to the elements of the world and innocence had always been something more like a dream. But this one's camera is expensive and feels relatively new in their hands so they doubt that financials are the worst of his problems.

But then, there are so many more problems in the world than money even if want of it does dominate the criminal landscape.

The boy flushes. "Yes – I … yes."

A tentacle flicks a teardrop away from his face. It tastes like salt.

"How long?" they say.

"A-a few years."

They hum. "Does he know?"

A frantic shake of the child's head.

Interesting. Definitely the makings of a Robin.

Gently, they set him down and he collapses on trembling knees. They haven't completely let loose of him yet – it's the only thing keeping him from falling on his face. And should they follow him down to the ground? Stand still? They're not sure.

Finally, they kneel. Put their hands on his shoulders. Drag him into an embrace.

Feel their heart pound as they realize they're not even sure if they know how to hug right.

"Hatchling," they say because this slip of a human will someday become their younger brother in arms. Another soldier sent to appease the city with his blood. With his life. They breathe in deep, committing his scent to memory. "Go home."

While he still can. Because one of the many rites of passage that a Robin must go through – that is, the _requirement_ – is to lose everything.

The child – boy – human – _hatchling_ – is tense. They rub his back in a hopefully reassuring gesture.

"You're not going to kill me?" he whispers into their shoulder.

"No," they promise, drawing back. They look him in the eye. Wipe tear tracks away with their fingers. "Come," they add, not unkindly. "This place is not safe for you."

The hatchling stands with them. He's pale, sweating, with the scent of fear that has decreased by only so much.

They withdraw into themselves again, skin closing over torn orifices. It takes a moment for them to settle fully, to coil around muscle and bone, but the result is something less intimidating. More human. The hood goes down even as they curl back into a more logical height, and they tear off the cloth covering the bottom half of their face. They look closely at the little one, bringing their face near, allowing him to take in their features as they have memorized his.

The hatchling blinks. "What are you doing?" His voice is wary, rightly so.

"People will think I'm kidnapping you if I cover my face," they explain as even more color drains from his face. White as a sheet, and they're almost tempted to regurgitate the remains of their last meal to offer but this is only a hatchling on his first life. Doubtless, he prefers to eat the way everyone else does.

"You're _coming with me_?" he squeaks.

They raise an unimpressed eyebrow. "Problem?"

Obviously, there was if the impending panic attack means anything. They thump his back. "Breathe, hatchling."

"I can go home on my own," the child reassures them too quickly. "I know the way – I've been doing this for a while, remember? You don't need to _escort_ me or anything." He laughs nervously. "I'm sure you have a lot of better things to do."

"No," they respond, bemused. They're not idiots – this boy is not going home unless someone sees to it that he does. "I don't. Now lead the way, hatchling."

"Really," he says, desperation creeping into his voice. "You don't have to."

"Don't I?" Their own home life had been hell during those crucial formative years. It might be a little late for their hatchling but they'd like to see what the situation is with him. "And – your camera."

The hatchling catches the device when they throw it, holding it close to his chest like a treasure as he slips the strap over his head once more. He murmurs his thanks before a horrified look passes in his eyes and he looks firmly away.

"You're welcome." Should they feel amused? Slighted? Again, they're not quite sure and suddenly, so much of _Bruce's_ awkwardness makes sense now.

(They shove the unwelcome realization away; it will not do to become _Bruce_.)

Tentatively, they stretch out a gloved hand, stained brown with dry blood but no one need to know that. They offer him a lopsided smile, the stretch of muscles unfamiliar but they're _trying_. "Let's go."

For a long moment, the hatchling looks frozen on the concrete roof: his face trapped in a mixture of horror, fear and – more encouragingly – disbelieving amusement. And then he snatches their hand, gripping them as tight as his little fingers can.

Well. In this form, they're little too. But taller than the hatchling. Quite a bit taller and growing, still. And their everything is bigger and stronger so they pick up the little one, ignoring his alarmed shriek, and descend from the rooftop. Still ignoring the shrieking.

"Babybird," they sing softly the way their mother sometimes used to when she lay on the ground, higher than the moon. "My hatchling, my babybird."

He shudders slightly, tightens his fingers on their clothes, and struggles to be let down on the ground as soon as possible. Moving too fast and forcing himself on shaky legs makes him sway and for one moment, he leans on them. It's only when he realizes that he's doing it that he stumbles backwards, eyes wide, heart beating fast, with his arms wrapped around himself.

"The streets are dark," they muse.

"That's okay." Too fast. Too openly anxious.

They smile, just a little. Bring the hood and the cloth back up to hide their face. "Then hop to it. Night's not getting any younger."

Armed with all the encouragement he needs, the hatchling shoots down the street, mustering up a pace that is possibly the fastest he can manage. They cross their arms and watch his figure grow smaller in the distance before ducking into a street. After counting down the minutes in their head, they move in the same direction. He can't have gone far in the given amount of time. No doubt, he'll take the least obvious routes, maybe even default back to the rooftops and try to disappear into the shadows, but that's alright.

A game of hide and seek never hurt anyone.

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* * *

 **Author's Note** : Welcome to my first attempt at writing for the Batman fandom. Make no mistake, I know very little of what goes on here. Comics are hard to come by where I live but I'm doing my best to find and read them when I can. I have a particular interest in Tim Drake and Jason Todd so I'm trying to read more of their comics than the others. Hopefully, I managed to write something close to how Jason might think and feel while also housing an eldritch horror in his body and mind (especially since he's technically supposed to be catatonic at this point). I may not always be able to send my thanks properly, but I greatly value your comments and/or criticisms - I would really like to improve my writing.

I apologize for any mistakes that may have slipped through the editing process. Despite them, I hope you enjoyed reading this fic!


	2. Chapter 2

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The hatchling runs. Runs like a ghost in the night and they whisper behind him, let themselves blend and shift and slither through alleys and shadows. It's a peculiar child, a playful one, that will hatch into a bird. He climbs fire escapes, teeters precariously over ledges, slips and slides and swings around corners. Gotham is his playground and they watch him with cautious eyes. They extend themselves, waif-like tendrils reaching halfway out of his field of vision, always ready to catch him should he fall.

Where are his parents? Parents are supposed to be–

 _Well_.

They don't actually _know_ what a parent should be; they staunchly refuse to count the man who sired them, as their father, and their mother… Their mother stopped looking after them early on. But they'd loved her, foolishly. They had taken care of her, for as long as they were able.

They'd _trusted_ her. And she gave them to the Laughing Man.

A small shiver travels down their spine as the unwanted memory returns, fragmented, like cracked glass. The warehouse, the pain of each swing, their bones breaking…

 _Bruce_ , though. _Bruce_ and-and _Alfred_ had been their parents, for a while. Parental figures. Whatever it was called. Those had been good years, even with prickly Nightwing. It had been _good_.

They'd actually started to think it could last.

The hatchling ducks into an unlocked window of an unassuming uptown house. It's an empty place, with no one else inside it but he's already tried hiding in abandoned areas to shake them off so they huddle beneath a tree, waiting for their nestmate to emerge.

He doesn't.

They wait and they wait and they wait until the sun starts peeking over the horizon. Then they stop waiting.

Quietly, unnoticed, they climb up the wall, to the partially open window. They slip through the gap, slide onto the floor. They look around and even if it is a bit bare, it's a child's bedroom. And on the mattress, buried under a blanket, is their hatchling peacefully asleep.

They croon gently, tuck in the loose covers.

Where are his parents? They cast around the house, feeling the corners and wide spaces.

The hatchling's nest is empty.

 _Abandoned_?

They stare down at this small child, an unborn bird in his cold empty nest, and they coil around him protectively. Body heat flows through their cold veins and warms him. They play with his black hair, brush it out of his face, rest their forehead against his.

He stirs. Makes a soft sound at the pressure surrounding him. He wakes up slowly and then all at once.

When he screams, they swallow the sound. When he finally, finally calms down, they draw back, stare at him as he tries to push himself away from them, only to succeed in pushing further into their grip. He's surrounded: where does he expect to go, exactly?

He lets out a distressed keen and they _move_. Farther, closer, filling the space between them and emptying out because it sounds so much like a babe's wail that their mind short-circuits and then fries a second later. Is he hungry? Stressed? Looking for his parents? Well, he's shit out of luck on the last part but at least they're here now. They'll try to make it all better.

Children should never be so alone.

So they hold him close, rock him back and forth on the bed as they make soothing noises. Kiss his forehead and card fingers through his hair.

(A memory. An old one, more a phantom emotion. Of sunlight-warmth and kisses on their face and soothing touch. They treasure it, use it as their frame of reference.)

For a moment, his wails border close on shrieking but then they squish him to their chest fiercely and he quiets down to sniffles. Tears and snot seep through their shirt but in this instance, they find they don't mind it so much. It was in need of a change, anyway. They let him stubbornly push away from their chest and meet his steel-blue eyes.

" _Why_ – I thought… What are you doing here?" The hatchling's voice is hoarse after so much screaming and they stroke his throat sympathetically. He flinches but otherwise refrains from rejecting them. Encouraged, they allow the tendril to sleepily rest against his neck as they continued to lightly rub his vocal chords.

"Your nest is abandoned," they murmur softly. A long, pale finger traces the shape of his face. "You are alone."

And then he's panicking again, rabbit-quick thrum of his heartbeat pumping blood through his veins. He smells like adrenaline and fear and confusion. They pull him close again, though not as close as before, regarding his little face in the slowly brightening room.

He's old enough to become a Robin, on the cusp of it. About the same age they were and somehow that frightens them. The hatchling is young and scared and defenseless with hollow bones, still. Maybe he's strong in other ways, ones that count just as much, but he will not survive the hunger of the earth. It will call for his blood and swallow him whole, bury him deep in the ground.

(It would be nice, they think, to have someone like them, to share with, to _know_ – but can he _survive_ it?)

He wouldn't come back.

They tug his hair gently, working out their distress as their stretch out of their skin to coil around his smaller form. It's good, to let go for once, and they tell the blood to pump warm through all their limbs as they practically bury him. It's a cold morning and a duvet with a few blankets thrown in is not nearly enough. The hatchling makes small sounds (whimpers?) and they press their lips to his temple again, committing his scent to memory.

"What are you doing?" he whispers fearfully.

"Ensuring that you do not die of pneumonia. This room is cold." They scowl. For a well-to-do house, its heating facilities seem to be lacking. Not a good dwelling-place, just a pretty one with cold hallways and hollow rooms. They shake their head only slightly, the soft pillow impeding the motion. "This is not a good place to build a nest."

Their words seem to strike him as his eyes grow wide and his breath catches. He's staring at them. Chokes. Turns away.

Their nestmate is _crying_.

They stroke his hair, pull him close until he's buried in them again. They're nose to nose now, going almost cross-eyed as they look at each other.

"Your face is weird."

They startle somewhat at his sudden, if shaky, words. Humor curls their lips and they tilt their head to rub his nose with theirs.

The hatchling scrunches his face in childlike disgust. "Like, I can't … really see it. Or know what I'm seeing. Is it always like that?"

"We are flesh and bone," they reply idly. The sun creeps through the spaces between the curtains, into their little world. "Would you like to see that, nestmate? My face?"

"Not your bones!" is the immediate reply.

They laugh deeply. "We shall cover them then."

Cartilage slides beneath skin, bones break and reform, they allow their head to curl inwards as they draw the shadows away. Their face clears and they are left with one set of teeth. They take another moment to finalize the changes, and finally, the hatchling – whose eyes have grown wide and horrified – gasps.

" _You're Jason Todd_!"

,

This is not their real face. To all the eyes on their back, they would like to make this very clear. It used to be their face, and technically, it still is, but donning it feels too much like fitting shed skin over their face: confining, ill-fitted for what they've become.

"I was," they allow with a small dip of their head. "I am more now."

Something like reverence shines in the hatchling's eyes. They're touched, wonder if they've met before.

Then: " _What happened to you_?"

"We came back."

" _And_?"

They look meaningfully at the hatchling. Who then elaborates: "You _kill people_ now."

They huff. "Coming back is not easy."

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of the hatchling. "Makes you hungry, right?"

Gently, they flick his ear, grumble something meaningless that makes him flop on his back. Their nestmate seems a bit overwhelmed by his revelation so they let him have the space.

"Did we know each other?" they finally gather the courage to ask. His eyes are bright and … _pained_ as he considers his answer.

"No. You didn't know me."

"But you knew me?"

"I…" His face flushes slightly. "Yeah. Yeah, I knew you, sort of."

 _Interesting_.

" 'Sort of', meaning night photography, I take it?"

And there's the blush, along with indignant but half-hearted stutters.

They smile, settle their chin atop the hatchling's head. Adorable little bird.

"You need to go back."

And they still. Rub little circles into his shoulders, hoping… "Go back where?"

"To Batman," their hatchling says, so innocently eager as he pronounces their banishment.

Their grip tightens. "No."

"What?" He draws away from them, confusion filling his blue eyes. "Why not? Batman _needs_ you. He hasn't been doing well since you died, he's been getting violent and – and–"

" _No_."

"But _why_?"

"Because he is _irresponsible_ ," they hiss. "Because he leaves this city he loves to rot and gave me to the earth to be eaten and trapped–"

"But he didn't _know_!" the hatchling cries desperately and they ache for his young heart. He's sitting up now, something fiercely determined in his eyes.

The Batman, they reflect, is so very well-loved – and by their nestmate, to boot. They're not sure how they feel about that.

(But whatever it is, it's not a _pleasant_ feeling.)

"Just go meet with him and you'll see," the little one insists. "He needs you."

 _Oh, he needs me does he?_

"What he needs is to see that this isn't working. What he needs is to get out of the Batsuit and make real change."

"But he's grieving for you! Can't you see that?"

They glare into the hatchling's eyes, willing him to just _understand_ , grip tightening. "And what about me, little one? What if I've grown out of the Robin suit? What if I'm too old for his games now?" Too much, too damaged. They sneer. "Do you really think he would accept me back into the fold once he realizes what I've become?"

"He cares about you."

Stubborn, innocent little thing…

"He loves Jason Todd, his dead son; he will never love the Ripper." And they have neither the emotional capacity nor the particular inclination to love him so that works well.

They have their baby bird to think of, after all.

He opens his mouth again, a stubborn set to his jaw.

 _Leave it_ , they hiss without voice, eyes sparking.

A beat.

The hatchling closes his mouth. He looks unhappy, looks completely frustrated, and they wind themselves tight around him again, press gentle kisses on this child's face and hands. Apologies flutter out of them, some from their lips, some simply curling into his mind. It's the first thing their nestmate has asked of them and they loathe knowing they've denied it. Especially when he seems to want it so much.

"Anything else," they promise in his ears as he squirms under their ministrations. "Anything else and we would grant it. We can build you a better nest elsewhere," they add thoughtfully, considering the chill in the building.

"No!" is the sharp reply and they shrug. He must be proud of this place, to not leave it even with its emptiness.

The little one is pulling away from them again and this time, they let him. An idea happens upon them, a somewhat cruel one, and all at once, they release him entirely.

He makes a dull thump on the floor and they peek over the mattress's edge, their eyes glittering with mischief. The little one glares up at them, and they soothe away the small bruises with their fingertips – or they try to, anyway. The hatchling snatches away from them then and stalks to the bathroom in all his childish indignation as they trail behind him, laughing to themselves in whispers.

,

Their blood writhes black out of the open tears on their skin. Their assailant looks on with horror as the oozing liquid squirms, enraged at its displacement. Gently, they poke it back inside where it belongs before sealing the gap. Then they look up.

Say, "That wasn't very nice, you know. It wasn't even a clean cut: you _nicked_ me." And there is something irritating and amusing about the fact, that out of everyone who's schemed and plotted and very deliberately _tried_ , this tear that spans across their entire arm is accidental.

Nightwing stares at them from his relatively safe distance across the rooftop. "What the hell _are_ you?"

Their eyes glitter sharply.

Neither the Batman nor Nightwing have been fully exposed to the things they can do, although all of them fight dirty. They just don't fight to kill, not in these fights, and even on the hunt, it's only in the seconds before their deaths that their victims have the chance to see what their predator truly is.

It is an underserved kindness, they think, to let them see and not fully comprehend in the moments before their sudden nonexistence, than to allow them to be painfully aware of their sudden disappearance from all the things that are. Even they're not that monstrous.

(They can still feel that squishiness of cartilage on the flat of their tongue.)

Nightwing fights but tonight they evade. Dancing around the edges, taunting the man as they stay just out of his hands even within arm's reach.

Somewhere in the darkness, their hatchling is taking photos. He won't let them see his collection yet, but they've given him permission to take their photographs as long as none of them leak to the public.

("Don't touch that!"

Their nestmate dives forward, grabbing the box out of their hands. They let him, asking without words as their raise inquisitive eyebrows higher than they should be able to go. The hatchling doesn't laugh – and when he does, it's a shaky, nervous thing that they're sure they dislike – and they haven't made much progress yet.

"It's – it's my collection," he confides nervously. He swallows. "They're important to me."

They nod understandingly.

"We do hope, Babybird," they murmur later with tendrils in his hair, "That you would trust us enough with them someday.")

Their nestmate is watching somewhere so they puff up their chest and put on a show. Better than anything he would ever find on TV, they twist and turn and occasionally jab Nightwing back. They don't speak, never really speak on the job except for the rarest occasions, but they do smile savagely behind the bandana. They're wearing new clothes, good ones that they can afford legally now with their illegal funds. Not needing armor has its advantages and they make full use of the fact.

Because the thing is, if they hadn't been lurking around on a rooftop, ready to pounce on a hapless criminal, Nightwing would never have even suspected it was them.

Ah, the wonders of not having a steady outfit. The wonders of not having an outfit that _sticks out_.

They dodge a particularly brutal swing of Nightwing's fist and steps back as the man stumbles forward. They know the flow of this fight, have felt the pull and push like it was born into them. It's easier than breathing – before they met the hatchling, the thought it that fighting _was_ breathing – and they hold back the least when it comes to Batman and his allies.

But they don't go all out. Never. They rather like moving with these partners, step by step, and it wouldn't do to reduce them to a puddle on the ground. Or eat them. No, that would be a shame. A waste.

(They don't care to admit that they _can't_.)

Later, as they make off with the spoils of victory (bragging rights, mostly, a sweet little thing now that they have someone to actually brag _to_ ), they wonder about the little bird who hasn't followed. Their nestmate follows the Batman most nights instead of them and they tell themselves that alright, fine, that just means that the Batman can look forward to seeing them on patrols that much more often. They're not quite sure how he does it, their Babybird, how he fits into corners and cracks, how he even _finds_ them in the first place, but they all have their talents and if this is his, then fine. They won't begrudge him of it.

It's just that he's so _small_.

They don't think they ever remember being quite that small (and invisible) and they worry. When they had been hatchlings themselves, their problem – amongst many different things that can be traced back to their shit parents – had been food. This is the easiest remedy, easier than genetics that they can change but certainly won't because their nestmate is _fine_. Just a bit on the small side.

They sigh a bit, swing their legs over the edge of the side of the fire escape's railing. Lift a lit cigarette to their lips and breathe in deep.

Somewhere off to the left, a tomcat hisses at them beneath the soft moonlight.

For a moment, they blink at each other. It's a mean little thing, this male tabby and he looks like a stray. Something no one would miss. Small and mean and probably infested with fleas but they can fix that, can't they?

They think about their Babybird's thin little limbs, his child's face and the breath of air that constitutes his weight. They think about how pallid skin and the adorable way his face sometimes scrunches up at their words. Think about how fragile he is, how soft and small and light and _breakable_.

Just.

Like.

Them.

And they think. It's best to start small, isn't it? Best to ease into things. Because he probably can't stomach much, while he's still so little. _They_ burst into life in what was supposed to be their last bed, but their nestmate won't have to go through that. They're determined that he won't. Instead, they'll wean him off the soft foods and onto something _real_. And once he starts teething, they'll give him more – a tendril of their own, perhaps?

The cat hisses at them and they hop off the railing and smile back.

,

,

* * *

 **Author's Note** : This is unbeta'ed creepiness. Like, seriously. Do you guys think this needs an M rating?

Writing this is difficult but oddly fulfilling and I'm glad that some of you have enjoyed it. There's recently been a few deaths in my family so I honestly don't know when I'll be able to write something up again but hopefully it will be soon. It will _probably_ be soon, considering that writing is my outlet and this is sufficiently dark enough for my mood.

Jason is not a hero in this piece. Just ... no. He's what I like to categorize as Something Else. In a blue-and-orange morality sort of way, although I might ( _probably_ ) be overestimating how well I write. We'll see how it all comes out in the end. I have a general flow for things now, so hopefully I'll be able to write things in a coherent way.

Thanks for all the support and reading my latest chapter. Life's been ... It's just been. Difficult. So thanks. I'm rambling, so I'll clear out now.

(Also, I'll read through this chapter and try to fix up whatever typos managed to sneak in. If you see any, I'd be grateful if you pointed it out.)


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